Day's sun has burnt the sky for the moon:

it barely finds its way through scraped clouds. 
A leftover bone thrown into the air for snapping
jaws below, sniffing blood. It's no wonder
this night feels violent. Even the way I'm 
snatched from my sleep feels like kidnapping. 
In this world, it's best to paint the simplest
picture of destruction. He ate more of the pie. 
The pie is now gone. We're left throwing
away the tin. 
 
Before I run, I sit atop my porch steps 
looking at what little light slinks its way
down to us. My breath is looking to patch
the ozone, traveling skyward. Hope, I've found,
is never in the big moments. 
 
The loop around my neighborhood 
is a decayed network of cracked slabs 
and Halloween skulls in February. It's 
hard not to see the act of running in circles
as overwrought sentiment from a worn-
out writer. I stumble over the same yanked-up 
concrete twice just as the sun begins casting itself 
in all directions like a boatful of fishing 
lines.
 
I can't say the light would have 
made any difference.
 
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